Page 16 of The Bratva Stalker and His Pregnant Bride

“You heard me, Ashley. You’ve built this high-and-mighty wall around yourself, acting like you’re completely untouchable, like what happened between us was just some clinical mistake. You’re stubborn. You’d rather choke on your own pride than admit that we—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” I cut him off, my voice remarkably calm, though my heart is hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. I refuse to let him see me unravel. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a shouting match.

I take a slow, stabilizing breath, my posture radiating an absolute, freezing authority.

“Let me make this incredibly clear to you, Mr. Rusnak,” I say, each word like a drop of ice hitting marble. “You do not know me. You do not get to comment on my character, my pride, or my life. Our relationship begins and ends with the signature on that contract. If you ever attempt to cross that boundary again, I will personally dissolve this partnership, tie your shipments up in customs litigation for the next five years, and watch your operations burn. Do we understand each other?”

Samuel stares at me, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek twitch. He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t give him the chance.

I turn on my heel and walk out of the boardroom, the heavy glass doors sliding shut behind me with a decisive, final hiss.

The moment I cross the threshold, the suffocating pressure in my chest slightly eases, but my hands are trembling. I tuck my portfolio tightly under my arm to hide the shake.

“Ashley?”

Maya is waiting just a few feet down the corridor, her tablet clutched to her chest. The second she looks at my face, her eyes widen. She immediately steps in closer, lowering her voice. “What happened in there? You look… Are you okay? Did he try to alter the shipping terms?”

“No,” I say, my voice clipped. I keep walking, my eyes fixed straight ahead as we head toward the executive elevator. “The contract stands at the doubled rate.”

“Then what was that?” Maya asks, her brow furrowing with genuine concern as she hurries to keep up with my rapid pace. “I’ve never seen you look this…unsettled after a negotiation. Did Mr. Rusnak say something to you?”

“It was just a disagreement over operational boundaries,” I brush it off, my tone lacking its usual, razor-sharp steadiness. My voice sounds tight, hollowed out by the sheer effort of keeping my composure. “He’s difficult. I don’t want to discuss it further.”

We reach the lobby, and instead of turning toward the corridor that leads to my private office, I halt. The thought of sitting at my desk, staring at spreadsheets while my mind loops over the look in Samuel’s blue eyes, feels completely impossible.

“Maya, reschedule my afternoon meetings,” I say, my hand gripping the strap of my bag.

Maya blinks in surprise. “All of them? Ashley, you have the budget audit at two, and—”

“Reschedule them,” I repeat, my tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “Tell them an urgent personal matter came up. I’m going home.”

“Okay,” Maya says softly, her eyes searching mine with quiet, intuitive understanding. “I’ll handle it. Go.”

“Thank you.”

I walk out of the corporate glass tower and slide into the back of my waiting car. As the driver pulls into the chaotic city traffic, I lean my head back against the cool leather seat and close my eyes.

I’m furious. I’m trembling with a raw, unresolved anger that claws at the inside of my throat, but beneath the rage is a terrifying, hollow ache I refuse to name.

I want to go home to Ethan. I want to lock my doors, hold my son, and pretend the ghost of Samuel Rusnak didn’t just crash back into my world. But as the concrete jungle blurs past the window, I know the fortress I built to protect us has just received its very first crack.

Chapter 8 – Samuel

The clock on my office wall ticks past midnight, the steady, rhythmic sound doing nothing to calm the storm brewing in my chest.

For the last three days, my focus has been completely shot. I’ve sat through high-stakes operational briefings, signed off on weapons shipments destined for the black ports of the Adriatic, and balanced the ledgers of an empire. But every time I close my eyes, I don’t see numbers or shipping routes.

I see her.

I see the white-hot defiance in her dark eyes, the way her breath caught when she tried to say my name, and the absolute, freezing wall of hatred she erected between us.

“You’re a contractor, Mr. Rusnak. Nothing more.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice a dark rumble in the empty room.

I lift a bottle of expensive single-malt scotch by the neck. I don’t bother with a glass tonight. I don’t care about the neat, two-finger measurements that usually ground me. I drink straight from the bottle, letting the raw, amber heat burn its way down my throat as I pace the floor.

My heavy steps carry me from one end of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the other, the sprawling lights of the city skyline blurred and distant.